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by listentotheink



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-05
Updated: 2013-04-05
Packaged: 2017-12-07 12:50:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/748701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/listentotheink/pseuds/listentotheink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Harry is a rockstar, and Louis is a bookworm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home

His hands shake as he plucks the cool metal strings of his guitar. Under the stage, the lights are bright; on stage they're even brighter. The anticipation from the show that had yet to begin started to overpower him, and the adrenaline begins to rush through his veins. The floor shakes under his Dior boot clad feet, due to thirty thousand fans in the arena that cool August night. He could hear their screams as their opening act is lowered down through the stage, and the crew runs out and begins to peel back stickers that were covering certain areas that were previously black, revealing the grey beneath. He’s seen it all from tapes, he knows every little thing that happens between sets and songs. He arranged all of it himself, including the twenty song set list that he had built himself, the lighting, the sound systems, the stage, everything.

He hands his guitar off to the grubby hands of a stage manager, and walks to stand with the rest of his band. His boots echo off the cement floor.

He takes a breath, and closes his eyes. One second is all it takes for him to be in another place. He sees a sparkle of blue, the eyes that haunt him. And he opens his own, only to see the rest of his band looking at him, staring him down. Their gazes were set, intense, unwavering, and they were all waiting for him to say something.

He can’t find any words, so he shares an anxious grin with them all, and they set out for the stage, his boots clinking against the cement floor. It’s a steady, pulsing beat, like a bass drum, and with every step, they group begins to zero in on each other, forming a mutual bond of respect for the others that only a band, people who were with each other ten months out of every year could have for each other.

He can feel the electricity in the arena as he steps out onto the stairs that would lead him to the stage, and takes his guitar from the crew man he had passed it off to earlier, and he picks each string, just to make sure it is perfectly in tune again. Then, led by flashlights through the dark tunnels, he and his band mates take their positions on stage.

Everywhere around him, the fans are chanting his name. It’s a magical experience for him, and it still managed to render him speechless every single time he heard it. He had dreamed about this for so long, and now it was a reality. He smiles, and the lights slowly fade up, illuminating his elaborate stage for the last time on the tour. They had made over ninety stops in five months.

He played the opening chords to a slow ballad which was his new number one hit, and he closed his eyes as the blinding white light began to give him a headache, and force beads of sweat down his back behind the fabric of his white Bruce Springsteen t-shirt. It would be soaked through about half way through the show, and then it would be time for the music break, and the newest music video would play, giving him just enough time to pull on another shirt and pair of jeans before he had to continue on with the music, and get lost in the feelings he had while playing it.

He never used to be able to play guitar. He used to play the keyboard, and the tambourine. Other than that, he was all about mike stand tricks, and jumping around stage, singing, and being a complete goof while his best friends played the instruments. He just poured his heart into the lyrics that he and his band had worked hard on, and had a blast doing what he loved.

He never wanted to sing either, he thought it was stupid, and he wouldn’t be able to make a living off of it. But then, his best friend Will had asked him about joining his band, White Eskimo, as the lead singer. And now, even though they weren’t very popular, they were making enough money to survive, and they were even opening for big named headlining acts like the Script.

He learned how to play the guitar when he met Louis.

****

He throws himself down on the couch in his bus, pulls his t-shirt over his sweaty head, and runs a hand through his hair. It feels so good to sit down after a show, especially one that had been as good as that night’s. The energy that he had felt running around the stage was incredible, and it was such a rush, that he had no idea how he would ever be able to give it up. It was a part of him, and sort of like an escape. He got to run around and go crazy on stage, while singing out songs that he had written by himself, or otherwise. He wasn’t an adrenaline junkie, or anything, but he loved the way he felt after giving a kick ass show. He loves the way that his muscles ached so bad, it was all that he could do to climb on the bus, and he loves the way his voice is so scratchy that you couldn’t hear him talk. But most of all, he loves the way his heart was still racing. All of his energy that he had is represented by that steady, fast paced beat.

He stands up, and scuffs his way across the beige carpet in the living area of the bus, trailing his hand across the tan coriander of the counter as he make his way past his bathroom and through the short, narrow hallway to his bedroom.

He’s half expecting him to be there, sleeping peacefully in his bed, his brown fringe flopping over his eyes, finally released of the gel that held it into a quiff, face relaxed. He knew that he was crazy to think like that, but sometimes, it was all he wanted, and all he could do was hope.

He picks up the chocolate brown, leather photo album that sat on the end of his bed, over the light brown blanket, and he lays down, resting his back against the headboard, before opening the cover. The pages are worn, and some of the pictures are loose, some pages are falling out, but that came from months of him, turning the pages every night. Sometimes going through the book more than once.

“Louis.” He whispers, running his hand over the glossy plastic page protector that covered his favorite picture. It was of the two of them on a holiday, taken from above their balcony. Harry had had a week off so they went out to Los Angeles for some sunshine instead of the dreary London weather. Louis was laying on his stomach, and Harry was leaning towards him in conversation.

He sighs and sets the book aside before cowering down in the blankets. Just one more day.

****

His cell phone chirps, and he rolls over, gripping his memory foam pillow tighter to his chest. His legs are tangled up in the covers instead of in someone else’s, and his head is down by the baseboard. It was a sure sign that he hadn’t slept well the night before.  He hadn’t been sleeping well lately, so it wasn’t an unusual occurrence for him to wake up in a reverse position.

He opens his eyes slowly, reveling in the darkness that was still surrounding him. No one had come into his room to pull open his curtains so the light would stream into his eyes and wake him, no one had woken him up with the sound of a guitar being strummed, no one had teased him with bacon and eggs.

It was times like these, he loved being on the road alone.

He loves being able to sleep, and to wake himself up in the morning, and make his own breakfast. He loves being able to crash at night whenever he wants. He loves being able to get lost in his feelings, and open up his heart when he was running around on stage, using all of his own energy. He loves writing his own lyrics, and opening his mind, and his soul, and that’s exactly what you would get if you looked at anything he had written since he was sixteen.

If you handed him a piece of paper, a pencil, and a single, inspiring line for a song, and he would find some event in his life that would relate to it, and break open a certain spot in his soul to match with the line. That’s what you get from a song writer, their feelings, their thoughts, their heart, their soul, their lives.  

“Mr. Styles.” A voice says through his door. It’s Tiahna, his Public Relations Representative. He had told her over and over, probably one hundred times to call him Harry, but she just wouldn’t. She said that it ‘ruined the professional status of their relationship.’ He hadn’t even felt the bus stop to let her on. “Mr. Styles, are you awake?”

“Barely.” He mumbles into his pillow, looking up at the carpeted ceiling of his bus. He pushes himself up so he was on his hands and knees, and then he untangles the covers before swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. He sets his feet on the floor, and pulls his t-shirt (which is actually Louis’) from the day before over his head, and walks over to the door, running a hand through his messy hair.

“Morning Mr. Styles.” Tiahna said when he cracks open the door, letting the light stream into his room. He squints, letting his eyes adjust to the light, and Tiahna continues. “I just wanted to let you know, that once we get into London, you have a radio interview set up. With Nick Grimshaw.”

“Thank you.” He says, nodding. She smiles, and then she turns and leaves the room, clapping her hands so his lights turn on in his room. He groans when the light hits his eyes, and he wants to flick the lights off, but then he sees the clock on his nightstand, the red letters read eight forty five, and he knows that it was definitely time for him to be out of bed.

Slowly, he walks to his closet, and pulls out his favorite, bright blue towel before leaving his room, walking the three, long, grueling, steps to his bathroom. He nearly jumps when he saw his reflection in the mirror.

“Congratulations Harry, you look like hell.” He muttered to himself, studying his face. His eyes are bloodshot, and have bags underneath them, it looks like he hasn’t slept in about a week, maybe more. He hates touring for that reason, he always looks like crap, but, on the plus side, this was his last thing to do, so he didn’t really have to worry about looking bad, because he would be able to sleep in his own bed.

He would be back to Louis that afternoon, and everything would be absolutely perfect.

****

He met Louis when he was on a stop in Doncaster two years before. He could remember it like it had happened the previous day.

Louis worked in a bookshop. But mostly, he had said, he read the books and helped people who didn’t know what they were looking for. He had sworn that he had read every book on every shelf, including all of the non-fiction ones, which he found incredibly boring. So when Harry had wandered inside, looking for a read to pass the time on tour, Louis was able to recommend quite a few books that ranged from Tolkien to Nicholas Sparks.

Harry had left that day with a stack of books and a phone number scribbled to the bottom of his receipt.

It had taken two days to call him because he was nervous, and a week of talking via phone and text before he finally got the nerve to ask Louis out on a date. But when they had finally met up at Rosso’s in Manchester, Harry knew after their pointless banter and the way that they had fallen into friendship so easily, that there was definitely something different about this blue eyed boy with glasses.

They met up a total of three more times before Harry had finally asked him to be his boyfriend, and they had been together since. And yeah, it was hard. It was so hard to be away all the time. It wasn’t easy for Harry to have Louis call him up late at night because he couldn’t sleep because of his anxiety. It wasn’t easy for him to not be there when Louis’ dog, Ted, had passed away. It wasn’t easy for him to not always be there when Louis needed him. He always called as soon as he could, or Skyped him when he was able. But sometimes Louis had already been cheered up by Stan or someone else.

They had made it this far, and Harry wasn’t going to give up.

Louis was Harry’s God given solace. With everything Harry did to prepare for his tour, including all of the publicity, rehearsing, arranging and rearranging songs so they sounded just right, designing all of the staging and lighting, making sure all of his guitars had been polished and repolished again and again, making sure that all of his outfits were set and his stylists were lined up... He was doing everything himself, and his stress levels were off the charts. So when it all got to be much, when he was so tired and stressed all he wanted to do was sit down and cry, he knew that Louis was just a phone call away. And when he was up until three am making sure that the stage design was exactly up to the standard he had set for himself, muttering under his breath as his eyes burned, Louis was there to rub his shoulders and coax him back to bed.

Something about the two of them just worked, and that’s why he wasn’t going to give up.

****

He always dressed to impress, no matter where he was going, or what he was doing, he always had to look really good, and respectful. So, when he, fastens the last button on his black shirt, he gives himself the once over in the mirror, and combs his curls out of his face, he asks himself the same question he always asked himself when he dressed up for something.

Would Mum ask me to change?

He looked at himself quickly, double checking his fly, and making sure that his shirt was tucked in before he triple checks the buttons on his shirt to make sure they were all fastens. Finally satisfied, he pulls on his blzr, and left his room, walking through the bus. On his way through, he opened up the fridge for a second to get a bottle of water, and then he straightened his tie one last time.

“Look sharp Harry.” His bus driver, Jake says, smiling at him. Harry smiles back at him, and pulls on his unlaced, beat up, white converse before he trudges down the stairs and into the fog that was London.

Home sweet home.

He gets about two seconds of fresh air, and even that two seconds was better than being on a stuffy bus for hours upon hours. Hell, anything was better than sitting on a bus for hours. The paparazzi was better than that...okay, that’s a lie. If there was one thing he hates about his job, it was the paparazzi. But, it came with the territory, so he couldn’t do anything about it.

****

When the interview is over, he’s even more exhausted than he was when he started the day. All he wants to do is get home. He wants to get back to the sofa and the cat that Louis had insisted on buying once they had moved in together. He wants to get back to his bed and Louis’ warm arms and the stupid little plants on the balcony. He wants to get back to the endless bookshelves that Louis had full. He wants to get back to the mess of their room, even though they were both in their twenties and should be able to pick up after themselves.

He just wants to get home.

****

When Frank, the driver of the black SUV pulls up in front of Harry’s building, Harry slings his bag over his shoulder and thanks him. It’s dark out, now. And Harry struggles with his keys when he reaches his front door.

When he gets inside and sets his bag down, he finds Louis asleep on their couch.

He smiles and crouches down beside him, ruffling a hand through Louis’ fringe, and presses a gentle kiss to Louis’ nose.

“Babe..” he says softly. “Lou Bear... Wake up.”

“Sleepy.” Louis mumbles, trying to inch away from Harry’s hands as they travel down his naked side. He swats Harry’s hand away. “Go away, Harry.”

Then his eyes snap open, as if he realizes what he just said.

Harry finds himself under the smaller boy, tackled to the floor, with lips pressing against his neck within seconds. He laughs and runs his hands down Louis’ back fondly, loving how soft his skin is.

“You’re home.” Louis says, pressing a kiss to Harry’s lips.

**“I’m home.” Harry replies. “I’m home.”**


End file.
